


Drop the Gloves (Don't Let Him Get Away With It)

by AetherSeer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 17:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10768764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: Tom knows it’s a bad idea. Everyone knows that going after Crosby is just asking for the rest of the Pens to jump in, but he’s still seeing red. Not Capitals red, but the red of Backy’s blood under the helmet after Crosby’s check sent him headfirst into the boards; the red that dripped onto the ice when Backy lay there, unmoving, for longer than he should’ve.





	Drop the Gloves (Don't Let Him Get Away With It)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somethingnerdythiswaycomes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingnerdythiswaycomes/gifts).



> The situation presented in this fic is not based on actual events. The idea came from a hypothetical situation discussed between somethingnerdythiswaycomes and myself.
> 
> Please note I wrote this before the actual game three between the Caps and the Pens.

Tom knows it’s a bad idea. Everyone knows that going after Crosby is just asking for the rest of the Pens to jump in, but he’s still seeing red. Not Capitals red, but the red of Backy’s blood under the helmet after Crosby’s check sent him headfirst into the boards; the red that dripped onto the ice when Backy lay there, unmoving, for longer than he should’ve.

Tom knows that Backy will be fine—he’d gotten off the ice with only a little help from Osh and Ovi—but that doesn’t stop him from checking Crosby into the boards at full speed. It doesn’t help that Crosby just wobbles a bit, either. Or that Crosby shakes off the hit and steals the puck in the next breath. It certainly doesn’t help that the Caps are trailing by two in the series, and the Pens are already up two goals this game.

Tom comes off his shift still steaming, tracking Crosby more than the puck while waiting for his turn to hit the ice. The Caps’ third line doesn’t match up against Crosby’s line very often, and Tom doesn’t get his next chance until the third period. But he gets his chance, and he takes it, slamming into Crosby shoulder-first and actually managing to knock him to the ice.

Crosby lands hard, and Tom feels vindicated. Then he’s rammed from behind, and pitches forward, skate blades coming perilously close to Crosby as Tom struggles to keep upright. He gets a glimpse of the jersey—6, Daley, he thinks—before the red comes back.

The puck’s lost somewhere in front of the net—Crosby had managed to send it away before Tom checked him—and Tom’s surrounded by a sea of black and gold jerseys. He loses his gloves, and then his helmet, and then all he knows are fists and blows, and trying to keep ahold of that 87 jersey to land a few blows of his own.

His own teammates wade into the scrum, red and white pieces of safety amongst the enemy. Tom shakes off Sheary with little effort and wheels around for Crosby, just a few strides away.

Burky sees Tom coming before Crosby does and wiggles free. Crosby gets his head up in time for Tom’s fist to slam into his jaw—not, Tom might add, on the side that previously broke. Tom’s not _that_ much of a dick.

Tom gets a couple more hits in to Crosby’s side and stomach before two refs—and Burky, what the hell—pull him off. He gets sent straight to the locker room, which, he probably deserves. But Crosby’s definitely going to be nursing a broken nose and maybe a black eye.

In the locker room, Tom pulls off his gear and checks himself over to injuries. Crosby held his own pretty well, given the tender spots over Tom’s ribs that are definitely going to bruise up later. A touch to his face comes away red with blood and Tom traces the cut over his eyebrow with a wince.

The trainers help him clean up and then he has to sit and wait for the game to finish. Tom’s not looking forward to when his coach—and team—come back down. He paces the locker room, glancing at the doors to the trainers’ room. Backy hadn’t rejoined the game.

Tom doesn’t know how long he paces—he’d gone after Crosby only a few minutes into the period—before the trainers’ door opens and Backy emerges. He’s pale, and there’s stitches up one cheek from his contact with the boards. Tom swallows when Backy notices him.

Backy flicks a glance around the room, and then back at Tom, who suddenly feels uncomfortable.

“You fought.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Tom can only nod in response. Backy’s lips thin; he looks tired, Tom thinks. He sits down in his stall and leans back against the wall. Tom feels awkward, standing in the middle of the room, but he’s still too full of restless energy to sit and wait for the game to end.

 

The game does come to an end, and Tom can hear the guys cheerfully chatting as they come down the tunnel. A win, then. That’s a result he’ll gladly take.

Ovi’s one of the last to enter the locker room, and he makes a beeline for Backy. Those huge hands hover over Backy’s shoulders, but don’t touch until Backy gives a nod. Ovi gently traces around Backy’s stitches, and Tom can see Backy’s shoulders release tension.

“Nicky, what did trainers say?”

“No concussion, but I should take it easy for a few days. They might clear me for the next game. We’ll see.”

Osh, clearly eavesdropping, lets out a whoop. Ovi’s grin lights up the room. “We win game for you. Willy fight Crosby for you.”

Tom winces when the attention turns back on him. He shrugs. “I wasn’t gonna let him get away with touching Backy.”

Brooks snorts. “You left him with one hell of a reminder. All of Pittsburgh is gonna hate you for marking up his face.”

They have two more days in Pittsburgh, and another game. And the Pens lost tonight, on top of Tom fighting their captain. “Fuck.”

Ovi straightens up and reaches over to ruffle Tom’s hair. “You didn’t think this through. Next time, wait to fight on night we leave city.”

 

Trotz lectures Tom on losing his temper, or at least making sure he takes more advantageous penalties, but Tom’s not suspended. So, at least something went right. And he has to laugh when Latts sends him the clip of Crosby talking to the media that night, one entire half of his face swollen and bruised.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if there are any mistakes or typos, and I'll correct them.


End file.
